The Summer Austria Adopted Italy
Austria did not qualify for the 2006 World Cup. That did not stop us from behaving as though it was our tournament anyway.
One of the great things about watching a World Cup in Austria is that when our national team does not qualify, we simply adopt another one. Suddenly, perfectly ordinary people turn into self-appointed football experts.
That summer, Italy was an easy choice – and not entirely by chance. For many Austrians, Italy means gelato, the Adriatic, espresso at the bar and memories of long summer vacations. At the same time, it is almost a national tradition to complain about highway tolls, traffic at the Brenner Pass and Italian driving, which made it all the more amusing to watch that familiar mix of affection and irritation turn into wholehearted support. The moment the anthem started playing, the Azzurri became part of the extended familia.
Austria had adopted Italy, and like many such adoptions, it all happened remarkably quickly. First you watch a few matches. Then you learn the players’ names. Before long, you’re discussing line-ups as though you’re sitting on the bench yourself.
Suddenly, people were discussing Italian tactics as if they had spent their youth in Turin. Friends analyzed the strengths and weaknesses of the Italian national team with the confidence of TV pundits, while my father talked about formations, form and playing systems as if Marcello Lippi regularly called him for advice.
Within a matter of weeks, we had apparently all become experts on Italian football. While everyone else was discussing tactics, I was secretly convinced that a country responsible for Dolce & Gabbana, aperitivo and the Amalfi Coast had to have a decent shot at winning the World Cup. It certainly did not hurt that the shirts looked suspiciously stylish, either.
It wasn’t until the final – and, ironically, until I was in Italy – that I realized just how far this adoption had progressed. I was on vacation with friends, somewhere between the beach, Aperol Spritz and the kind of Italian summer evenings that have a habit of getting away from you.
Yet the closer the final got, the more everything revolved around that one match. As we walked towards a packed local bar to watch it, I remember wondering whether we’d spend the evening quietly watching someone else’s celebration.
We eventually found ourselves in a small bar that was hopelessly overcrowded. Getting a seat felt almost harder than getting a ticket to the final itself. People spilled onto the pavement, squeezed around the bar and crowded the windows. It felt as though the whole town had gathered in one room.
Eyes kept drifting towards the television, and it felt as though the entire town was holding its breath. What stayed with me most wasn’t just the tension but the complete ease with which the Italians accepted our support. Of course we were rooting for Italy – as if there had never been any other option.
Nobody asked where we were from. If anything, people simply assumed we belonged there, launching into animated conversations in Italian and gesturing excitedly towards the screen without ever stopping to wonder whether we understood a word.
At one point, after a missed chance, the man next to me threw his hands into the air and launched into an animated rant in Italian. I smiled, shrugged and laughed. He laughed too, patted me on the shoulder and turned back to the screen. From that moment on, it felt as though we’d been watching together all along.
When the match began, hundreds of eyes locked onto the same screen. We weren’t Italian, but after weeks of shouting Forza Italia, that suddenly felt like little more than a technicality.
With every chance, you could feel the entire bar tense up, every missed opportunity followed by a collective groan. Everyone had an opinion on every moment of the game, shook their heads at refereeing decisions and argued with remarkable conviction about things they had probably only started following a few weeks earlier.
Then came Zidane’s headbutt – for a few seconds, nobody seemed quite sure what they had just witnessed. People stared at the screen before slowly turning to one another with mouths hanging open, each hoping someone else might have an explanation. Nobody did, which was probably why everyone started talking at once.
As the match drifted into extra time and, eventually, penalties, the atmosphere grew almost unbearable. Beer glasses sat untouched on tables, conversations faded away and even the waiters seemed more interested in the television than in their customers. By the time Fabio Grosso stepped up for Italy’s final penalty, it felt as though the whole room had stopped breathing.
The moment the ball hit the back of the net, the bar erupted. People jumped to their feet, complete strangers threw their arms around one another, and car horns echoed through the streets before the trophy presentation had even begun. Within minutes, the celebrations had spilled out onto the streets. Flags waved, strangers embraced and someone, somewhere, always seemed to be opening another bottle.
And there we were, right in the middle of it – not as Italians. We probably lacked both their talent for football and their ability to hold three conversations at once using only their hands, but for that evening the distinction felt surprisingly unimportant.
When I think about the 2006 World Cup today, I don’t think first about the result, the statistics or even the trophy. I think about a crowded bar in Italy – the heat, the noise and people throwing their arms around one another as though they had scored the winning penalty themselves. I think about walking in expecting to feel like an outsider and leaving, wondering when I’d stopped feeling like one.
It was the first time I’d realised that, sometimes, belonging has surprisingly little to do with where you’re from and everything to do with sharing the same moment. Throughout that summer, we’d joked that Austria had adopted Italy. Looking back, I think the feeling was mutual.
